The Dead Don't Wai

by Michael Jecks

‘Sir, over here, sir.’

  A man stood waving. He was dressed in clothes that were filthy from mud and lichen, but as we approached him, he pointed. ‘I found this,’ he said.

  There, in the damp soil, was the tip of a piece of leather. I pushed at it with my boot, but it bent and returned to the vertical. The earth all about here was scraped clear, so it appeared to me. I bent and pulled at the leather; to my surprise, it was difficult to bring it out.

  ‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘It almost looks like a poor-quality shoe. Look. There’s a thicker piece of leather, like a sole, and the two are sewn together.’ I pulled again, and this time a length of soil moved.

  ‘I’d leave it there for now,’ Sir Richard said, and bellowed to the peasants to come and help dig.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s just an old boot,’ I said, and pulled hard. The boot gave a sad sucking sound, and suddenly I fell back. Standing, I stared. The soil had given up the boot, while exposing a dirty, brown quintet of toes. I had pulled off a dead man’s boot.

  ‘Those ain’t a woman’s toes,’ Sir Richard said professionally.

  ‘No?’ I said, wiping my hands quickly on my tunic. They felt horribly dirty for some reason. I could almost feel contagion creeping like lice up my fingers. The toes seemed to be waving at me; my vision was hazy.

  ‘Aye. Looks like a man’s,’ Sir Richard declared. ‘Let’s have him out, fellows. Dig away! Hoy, Jack, are you feeling unwell?’

  While Sir Richard organized three men to dig and bring up the body, I found a small bush and threw up behind it.

  Once the body of the man had been retrieved from the boggy soil in which he had been buried, we walked back to the inn. Sir Richard had ordered that the men should fashion a stretcher from timbers. They took two boughs and strung a rope between the two, back and forth, and laid the body on top.

  ‘I didn’t expect that,’ Sir Richard said as we walked alongside the figure.

  ‘No. Nor did I,’ I admitted.

  The figure was that of a man in his early middle years, a great hulking fellow with a black beard and hair. He was, so we were informed, the miller. And that, in short, was the cause of our confusion.

  Sir Richard had the man taken back to the inn and set out on the same trestles in the lean-to building at the rear that his brother’s body had occupied. Meanwhile, he and I, along with a sizeable proportion of the peasantry, adjourned to the inn itself, Sir Richard and others demanding drinks by the fire. While Sir Richard sat, I went to speak with Dorothy. Humfrie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Mistress, we would like to speak to your son Ben.’

  ‘Why? What has he done?’ she asked with concern.

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s something he told me earlier, about a dream he had. However, first, may I ask you how you fare? Your eye is at least open again. The swelling has reduced. I was worried for you, mistress, when I saw how badly swollen it was.’

  ‘Yes, well, I am well again.’

  ‘Why did he do that to you?’

  ‘He didn’t mean it,’ she said quickly. ‘Sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength.’

  ‘That, mistress, is no excuse.’

  ‘In any case, perhaps he was right.’ She sighed. ‘Since Peter’s death, I haven’t known what to do for the best.’

  ‘If he does it again, he will answer to me,’ I said firmly.

  She smiled at that, I am sure because she was impressed with my words and attitude. After all, I cut a dashing figure standing there, offering myself as a protector and support.

  ‘He won’t,’ she said.

  ‘I hate to ask this, but there are many stories, as you know, of your husband’s infidelity. Do you think they are true?’

  Her face hardened. ‘He was a good, loving husband until the new law. They forced him from me, and then these people here accused him of over-friendliness with other women! Do I believe it? No! My husband was always a loyal, decent man. But he was a priest. When he went to Sarah, it was because she had lost her husband, and he went to offer her support, I think. When he went to the miller’s daughter, that was because she was scared of her father. When he went to any member of his congregation, it was in order to help those people. All these stories about him being a womanizer, they are false, horrible stories spread by those who want to think all priests are untrustworthy, especially the ones who were prepared to change their gowns. There are many here who hate the old religion, and they disliked my Peter because he came back to it from the new Church.’

  She swept out to the back room, and soon I heard her calling for Ben. After a few moments she returned to serve, and a little later Ben appeared at my side.

  Sir Richard glanced at him and then pointed to the floor in front of him. ‘Come here, lad. Sit and talk to me for a while. Would ye care for a pot of ale? Warm from the hob, eh?’

  He poured and passed the ale to the boy, and Ben sipped carefully, his serious eyes fixed on the Coroner.

  ‘Now, boy, this man here says you spoke to him and told him about a horrible dream.’

  ‘A dream? No, it was the miller’s daughter, out here in the roadway.’

  The Coroner exchanged a glance with me. The boy clearly didn’t realize he had dreamed it. If not a dream, it must have been a ghost. ‘And she looked as though she had been stabbed?’

  ‘All her front, sir; she was smothered in blood. It was horrible. It was like when we kill a hog. We pull it up on a tripod, hanging by the back legs, and when the throat is cut, the blood gushes. I thought the lady had her throat cut, too. The blood was all down her front, sir.’

  ‘I see. And when you saw her, did you think that she looked angry, scared? How did she look?’

  ‘I think she looked sad, sir. She always did. I think she …’ His voice trailed off and he turned to glance at his mother. She stared back at him, then at me. Some men moved between us and broke that gaze, and I was relieved. It felt as if I’d been the target of a lance-tip. Ben turned back to Sir Richard. ‘Everyone used to say that her father was cruel to her, sir, ever since her mother died. He used to hit her, sir,’ he added, his voice dropping. ‘And they said he did other things to her, too.’

  Sir Richard nodded to him encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, they said he couldn’t marry, so he treated her like his wife. They said that the priest went to them to try to persuade the miller to leave her alone.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Most of the men here. Only one said other things.’

  ‘What sort of other things?’ Sir Richard rumbled.

  ‘That the priest was only keen on visiting the women of the village, sir,’ Ben said, his voice dropping as he recognized the anger in Sir Richard’s face.

  ‘Boy, I am very grateful to ye,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Can you tell me who said that?’

  ‘It was Master Harknet,’ Ben said, looking terrified by the Coroner’s expression.

  ‘Do not fear, master,’ Sir Richard said. ‘The truth won’t hurt you, and I won’t be angry with you for speakin’ it.’ He leaned back in his seat and eyed the men in the room. ‘Is he here, Master Blackjack? Do ye see him?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Hah! The whoreson whelp wouldn’t dare come here in case I was already inside, I suppose.’

  ‘I doubt that would trouble him. He knows nothing of your relation to Peter,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. I suppose that is true,’ the knight conceded. He scratched at his beard. ‘What now, then? I suppose I should speak to him and see if he can bring anything in the way of evidence about Peter, or whether he is spreading rumours out of simple malice, but I don’t know that I can stop meself from hitting him if I hear him speaking about Peter in that sort of way.’

  ‘You have to restrain yourself,’ I said. I sipped more of my ale contentedly. It had been a hard day, but I had retrieved my money, Arch hadn’t caught up with me yet, Raphe was alive and may be grateful to me before long for my rescuing him, and that meant my master,
John Blount, would be grateful that I had liberated his fellow. All in all, I felt I had achieved much in a day that began so badly with a punch to my chin. I casually glanced about the room, refilling my pot from the mulled ale, and sipping cautiously. It was quite warm there. When I turned back to Sir Richard, who was being most uncharacteristically quiet, I found he was watching me with a little smile. His shrewd little eyes looked like gimlets, the way he was staring at me.

  ‘What?’ I said. And then, ‘Oh. No, I really can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can, Master Blackjack. It won’t take you long. Just find out what he really knows, and what he guessed at.’

  I was grateful for Ben’s assistance in finding the place.

  Harknet lived south of the road through the village, with a smallholding of perhaps five acres. It was teeming with livestock, too. Pigs and sheep, a cow, two donkeys and, from the row as we approached, a couple of dogs as well. Ben stood at the gate and gave me an anxious look before haring back up the track towards the inn.

  ‘Harknet?’ I called. The dogs were redoubling their efforts. I think they were indicating that they had an appointment with my liver and were looking forward to getting acquainted. Not that it bothered me terribly. I reckoned that if I was attacked, firing my pistol would probably scare them into the middle of next year. It certainly terrified me every time I pulled the trigger and saw the flames spout from the barrel, the effusion of smoke, sparks and foul smells that were given off every time. It was a truly terrifying weapon.

  The door was flung open, and the dogs suddenly pelted down the path towards me. I had to leap backwards nimbly and pull the gate behind me, but even then it was touch and go. I feared that one of the beasts, an ill-favoured monster with slavering jaws and particularly large teeth, I noticed, might attempt to leap the gate. He could clear it in a single bound, I felt sure.

  ‘Harknet, hoi! Come and take these monsters away before I kill them,’ I said loudly. I already had the gun in my hand, and was pointing it at the nearer of the dogs while I stared at the house. There was a light, and I saw a lantern, just as there was a sudden grip at my gun. When I looked down, to my horror, I saw that the vicious brute had caught the gun’s barrel in his mouth, and he was chewing at it like a stick. ‘Get off it, you fool,’ I muttered, trying to wrest it from him, and when I looked down into his eyes, I saw a sudden gleam.

  I have heard it said that a dog always knows when a man is scared of him. The dog will always take advantage when he senses fear. Not that he had to work hard to sense my nervousness. He clamped his jaws on the gun more firmly, the barrel passing through his mouth from left to right, and he shook the gun like a hound breaking a rabbit’s back.

  Now, I could have told him that doing that was not going to be enjoyable for him. Shaking the gun meant twisting it from side to side in my grip. My finger, naturally, was on the trigger, and at first I didn’t realize what the whirring noise was. Nor did the monster, whose face took on a quizzical interest, one eye turned down to peer at the mechanism – because my finger had pressed the trigger. The clockwork was performing its function to perfection, spinning the great wheel, and the pyrites was resting on the wheel. Suddenly, a shower of sparks flared.

  The dog yelped and dropped the fiery stick just in time. As he did so, there was the flash in the pan, and then a loud report as the gun fired. I swear, the flames were six feet long, and they lashed at the hound’s arse. It gave a loud yowl and disappeared into the thick grey coils of greasy smoke. The billowing clouds concealed everything for some moments. And when the smoke cleared, there were no dogs. They had high-tailed it back to the house.

  I took the precaution of reloading the gun, swabbing it clean of sparks and cinders, tipping more powder in, and then wrapping a slug in cloth and ramming it home. As I walked to the house, I dropped a pinch or two of powder into the pan and rewound the mechanism, setting the dog back against the wheel. By the time I had reached the door, it was primed and ready.

  ‘Harknet!’ I called. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘You tried to kill my dogs!’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Your dog tried to attack me.’

  ‘You didn’t have to kill him. What’ll you do to me?’

  ‘I want to talk to you. If I don’t, your next visitor will be the Coroner, and he won’t be as accommodating as me.’

  Slowly, the door opened. Harknet stood a little back and stared at my pistol as I walked inside. His dogs were cowering together under the small table. Neither showed any enthusiasm for playing with my exploding stick, and the big devil who had grabbed it kept his eyes on it all the time, ignoring my face. He looked like a toddler watching the belt, waiting for the blow to strike.

  ‘Have you heard that they found—’

  ‘Miller’s daughter, yes.’

  ‘No. The miller himself.’

  ‘Caught him, eh? That’s good. He’ll suffer for all eternity for—’

  ‘Just listen and try to understand,’ I said irritably. ‘There is no sign of his daughter, only the miller. Someone killed him – stabbed him, I think – and buried him at the side of the millpond.’

  He gaped and slumped into a seat. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘Me? No! Why should I?’

  ‘But you have said that the priest was the sort of man who would go to comfort the women of the parish?’

  ‘Yes. He was an incontinent fellow, the same as all these priests who have enjoyed carnal knowledge of women. Once they taste the pleasures of the flesh, they cannot stop themselves. They—’

  ‘Really? So they are turned into ravening beasts by a single kiss, you think?’

  ‘No, it’s more than that! Once they have lain with a woman, she opens their eyes to pleasures that they should not have discovered. It was the greatest failing of the heretical new Church the old King imposed on us all!’

  ‘The one you supported, you mean? I’ve heard you were the most enthusiastic supporter of that Church, and reported all those who you felt were keeping to the old Roman religion.’

  He paled. ‘It’s not true! I was persecuted for my faith, because I was always true to Roman Catholicism,’ he asserted, but his eyes would not meet mine as he said it.

  ‘Oh, well, if that’s the case, we can put it to the others in the village, if you like,’ I said. My sarcasm was intended to hurt. ‘After all, if you were never keen on the new faith, they must have lied when they said you reported them for not attending the new services.’

  He glowered sulkily.

  ‘However,’ I continued in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I am not here to discuss your personal views, only your proof of the infidelity of the priest before he died.’

  ‘Not after he died, then?’ Harknet sneered.

  I snapped. ‘Fine. You do not wish to talk to me. I’ll go and fetch Sir Richard. He won’t be as understanding, but I’ve had enough of your arrogance.’

  ‘No! No, I beg. I will help you all I can. Anything but him!’ He glanced away. ‘He terrifies me.’

  ‘In that case, kick those dogs outside so I can sit, and fetch some ale or wine so we can speak comfortably.’

  He did as I asked, and soon we were sitting with a jug of cider between us and a cup each. It tasted like something the dogs had thrown up, and I was sure it was eating into my teeth as I drank. It landed in my stomach like acid, but after I forced down the first cup, I ceased caring. It was almost soothing then – which was itself worrying.

  ‘I don’t know how many women he seduced,’ Harknet said, distracting me from my concerned staring into the cup. He shook his head slowly. I could understand that. I wanted to myself – but then I realized he was not shaking his head at the cider, but at the folly of men.

  ‘I know he tried it on with Sarah, and I know he slept with the miller’s daughter. As to how many others, I couldn’t say.’

  ‘You say you “know” he tried it on with these. How do you know? Did you see him in their beds?�
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  ‘A man doesn’t have to be seen in bed for a fellow to know what he’s been getting up to. I saw him with the miller’s daughter, and he was … affectionate with her. As to Sarah, she told me he tried it on with her. She went to him after her husband died, and Father Peter went to her and suggested that they should pray together. He bade her kneel, and he knelt behind her, and then she felt – well, it wasn’t his crucifix. She was up and denouncing him in a moment, and he was ashamed and fearful that she might speak to someone, so he made profuse apologies and left her.’

  ‘She said this to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sir Richard spoke to her, and she denied anything of the sort.’

  ‘Perhaps she was awed by him or just fearful of him. He is an alarming man. And then there is his position. And his relationship to Father Peter.’

  That was true enough. Especially since she knew that he was the dead man’s brother.

  ‘He might have told her he was Peter’s brother,’ I agreed.

  ‘He wouldn’t have to. Most of us knew.’

  ‘Knew he was Peter’s brother?’

  ‘Yes. Peter often told of his clever brother who had become a knight and was now a Crowner. When Peter died, we all guessed his brother would come to investigate. And the similarity was hard to miss. I doubt Sarah would wish to upset him with tales of how his brother tried to swive her while she prayed, do you?’

  ‘What of the miller’s daughter?’

  ‘Her? He wouldn’t have had to work hard with her. She couldn’t help but seduce men, no matter who they were. Even her own …’ He stopped and looked away.

  ‘Her father?’ I said.

  Harknet was quiet for a few heartbeats. Then he sighed. ‘Yes. Everyone knew it. He lost his wife, and with his temper and drinking, no other woman would have been stupid enough to take him on. So instead he took his own daughter.’

  It was not unknown. Incest was deplorable, but in the quieter areas of the countryside like this, when a man was desperate and couldn’t find a legitimate wife, he would sometimes make use of the women available. A daughter was as legitimate as anyone else to a drunk with fire in his ballocks. ‘Talk is easy. Was there ever any proof?’